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Not by my mother—that I cannot be shocked by.
But Hendrix left me. When the going got tough, the man who I thought would work himself to exhaustion to accomplish something left without a backward glance. He cut me out of his life so swiftly, I can’t believe it was much of a hardship for him. The pain is so bad, I attempt to stuff it away. I tell myself over and over again I’m better off without him.
I get in my car, crank it, and put it in drive. My eyes are dry as I wander aimlessly through the mostly abandoned streets until I find myself in front of my father’s house.
I’m not halfway up the steps before the door opens. He takes one look at my face and without knowing a single fact, somehow he knows the whole story. He meets me at the door, pulling me into his arms. “I’m either killing your mother or Hendrix. Which is it?”
“Neither,” I murmur, because truthfully, I’ve somehow managed to push the pain so deep just so I can breathe, I can’t even find the energy to care about it.
“Come on inside,” he says, arm around my shoulders. “I’ll make coffee and breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”
“Not right now.”
My dad’s arm falls away, the concern in his expression increasing. I never refuse to talk about my feelings with him.
“I’m tired. Mind if I lie down for a bit?”
“Of course not,” he says, looking very unsure of himself.
“Wake me up in an hour. I have to go open the bar.”
“Carrots,” he says gently. “You don’t have to open the bar. Take a day off. If you want to sleep and be left alone, I’ve got you.”
I shake my head. “No… I just need a bit of time alone. But I want to open the bar. There will be people expecting it, and I don’t want to let anyone down.”
He studies me a moment, and I can almost see him warring with whether to let me be a grown woman who makes her own decisions or to lock me in my bedroom and force me to stay here.
Finally, he lifts his chin toward the staircase. At the top and to the left is my childhood bedroom. “I’ll come get you in an hour.”
“Thanks, Peas,” I say with a half-smile and turn away from my dad to trudge up the stairs, away from the worry in his eyes.
CHAPTER 23
Hendrix
Sitting at my parents’ kitchen counter in the gloomy predawn hour, I pull up the article again. I don’t read it because I’ve nearly memorized it since it came out yesterday morning.
Instead, I go down to the comments and reverse filter them to most recent.
It should be a balm reading them because almost universally, the fans are pissed. The reporter, Carmine Betta, has been called out for trying to sensationalize individuals who have been traumatized by the crash and hurting the very people busting their asses for this city.
But some of those commenters, while in the course of defending anyone named in the article, have called for Stevie’s head.
Well, not hers specifically, but for whoever the “source” is, which hasn’t been revealed. She wasn’t named in the article, and Carmine merely referred to her as “an unimpeachable source.” He didn’t even identify if it was a man or woman who gave him the information, but obviously, I know.
There have been a slew of follow-up articles and even local news anchors commenting on it, wondering who was so deep in the organization that they could give up that level of information. I know if word ever got out it was Stevie, she’d be retaliated against. I’m sure her bar would be vandalized, possibly her customers driven off over the furor this has caused.
As angry as I was… am… I don’t want that to happen to her. Truly, I don’t want anything other than to forget about Stevie.
Christ… I rub at my breastbone and figure I must be having a heart attack. That shit hurts, but admittedly only when I think about her.
“You’re up early,” my mom says as she enters. She doesn’t turn on the overhead light but rather flips on the one over the stove to illuminate the coffee pot right next to it.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I shut off my screen and set my phone down. “Why are you up so early?”
“Because you couldn’t sleep,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at me.
I can’t help but smile in return. She’s one of those moms who knows when her kid is in pain. I watched her grieve Rachel’s death, which is the ultimate horror for a parent, but I also know it hurts her when I hurt.
I had no choice but to tell my mom, dad, and Rory what happened. My parents don’t know Stevie other than what I’ve told them. They were pretty quiet on the subject, only giving me their support and assurances that my feelings were valid.
